


Dead Men Know No Love

by flammabellum



Category: Naruto
Genre: Blood, M/M, Necrophilia, Violence, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammabellum/pseuds/flammabellum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two short one-shots inspired by the relationship and dynamics of Madara Uchiha and Tobirama Senju.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

There is no normal love here. Tobirama keeps telling himself that, convincing himself, and inside, cursing himself and cringing at the l-word now forcefully worming its way inside his thoughts, nestling deep, like a termite finding that perfect spot in the trunk of an otherwise healthy tree. He knows this, is aware of this every waking moment, but he does not stop it, and even now he sees the ruin of the tree in the imminent future. Hollow. Hollowed out. All because it refused to rid itself of that one tiny termite.

They do not talk outside the needs of official business. It is common knowledge that the distrusts the Uchiha, and this particular Uchiha hates his guts because he’d killed the man’s brother. That knowledge was common, and many take comfort in its familiarity. 

Tobirama can still remember how the boundary was shattered.

_Smoke, rising from the brazier. A sake bottle turned over to its side, the liquid spilled onto the tatami, seeping, seeping, creating a dark, dark patch. Under the dancing flames his eyes mirror, words escape his mouth, twisted and incomprehensible, his whole frame shivering._

_Dark hair twists itself around his finger, and it seems, an eternity later, it finds itself plastered against his scarred skin. There is something mesmerizing with it, a trail of ink on paper - a strand of hair on his shoulder._

_He feels the bruise forming around his neck, and the pain does not dissuade him; he is at once angry and vulnerable and furious and amorous; his mind is a jumble of his dead brothers and these Uchiha, and this, this particular Uchiha right here—_

_There is the constricting of muscles, and his control stumbles and flutters and shatters, and his hands curl into fists around a handful of the sheets, and that black, black hair—_

They do not speak. They find that words do them disservice. If the other talks it’s only to counter every proposal he or his brother makes, and if he talks, it’s either to silence his brother or refute the other’s argument. This is the familiar. The comfort zone. This is where Tobirama feels most grounded upon reality.

_But he remembers the memory of his cheek pressed awkwardly against the wall; his face scrunched up in pain; he remembers lips caressing his ear curve, a taunting laugh, breathy, breathy like the north wind, words that are too filthy to be even compared to mud, and to his eternal shame he also remembers his heart pounding with every syllable, with every word, with every laugh, with—_

_With—_

_He remembers how he squashes his face against the wall to muffle his voice, and teeth sinks into his flesh, and there’s pain, and there’s also–_

_He feels alive._

Walking by the spiral steps of the Hokage Tower, carrying an armful of papers, he stops as his perception registers that one familiar signature. He looks down, meets charcoal eyes. There is a rude command telling him to step aside, but he does not, stays resolutely in the way, and he enjoys the powerplay of standing on the higher tiers of the stairs, towering above this man. 

The tension is palpable. Neither want to relent, and the Uchiha makes the usual insulting remark he has grown used to. He smirks faintly, and finally steps aside. 

He only catches the implications of the little thing much later, and he curses himself over it.

_He asks a question, insignificant in itself, he supposes - why do you grow your hair this long?_

_He expects no answer, but the Uchiha turns to him, the end of a kiseru still stuck between his lips. He puffs out smoke. ‘To protect my nape.’ He lets the silence extend, asking for more details that way, but it isn’t given. He supposes there was a bit of trust there, somehow, if it could exist in this relationship._

_Stop smoking, he says._

_The Uchiha simply puffs more smoke out, and this infuriates him. His hand flies before he can control it, and the pipe is discarded on the floor._

_And there it is - there it always is, isn’t it - those looks of fire and murder. He looks forward to it, and the two of them slip into this dance, this farce, and clothes are disregarded and pain is inflicted and received, and as they rock together in a feverish pitch, he thinks, no, I don’t love– I have no need for love, I don’t– I never—_

But if he didn’t love, he asks himself when Hashirama gives him the news that the village finally has its first deserter. If he didn’t love, if he didn’t,  _why did it hurt_? Nothing shows on his face, and his arms remain folded across his chest. He simply looks at his brother, gives him this 'I told you so’ quirk of his eyebrow, before he turns heel and leaves. 

He does not come with his brother on that final confrontation that created the Valley of the End, because even then he knew he would doubt himself; knew he would only burden Hashirama. It is in this he acknowledges that the heart he thought he’s killed is still alive, alive, painfully so, and clinging to whatever scraps of life that could feed it. 

When the aftermath of that battle dies down, he dares– he dares visit that abandoned house and sits on the dusty floor, and he lets his perception spread, and memories flood him - words, breath, the feel of long black hair twined around his fingers, of pleasure that he knows he would not derive from someone else and nobody else can give him. 

And this, perhaps, is where his decision is made.

He never marries.  
Never fathers children.

And he remembers, again.

_He recalls it, the first night they spent together, lying down beside each other in the dark. The world silent, a mute witness to this sordid treachery. He does not reach for the other’s hand, and the other makes no effort either._

_“Do you not listen to your elders?” the Uchiha asks._

_There is a shifting here, as blankets are moved, and he looks up at those red pinprincks for eyes as the other’s weight settles on him. This close, this close, that heat still envelopes him._

_“This is revenge,” the Uchiha continues, lips hovering just a mere inch above his own. “I will get you where kunai doesn’t reach. And when I’m done, you’ll ask for death.”_

_He dismisses the words with a laugh. He trails his thumb over a fine cheekbone._

_“Let’s see who destroys each other first, then.”_

Now he knows, he knows…  
He lost.


	2. ii

Tobirama Senju remembers the dead quiet of the morning that came right after the gouging of the Valley of the End; Hashirama standing by the doorway, his back to the rising sun. He remembers; the great river of red dried upon his brother’s arm. Hashirama’s red lacquered armor in pieces, the broken chips a crimson trail upon breathing earth.

Hashirama looks to his brother with eyes that searched for comfort. Tobirama stared back, arms crossed. The chakra of his lover - is heavy on Hashirama’s armor, on the blood dried on his brother’s hands.

Tobirama Senju turns away from his brother.

—

The corpse was face down on the earth when Tobirama found it. He supposes there is a charm to it, Madara silenced forever, and he sweeps that body up into his arms, looking down at the face he knows too well - both in public and in clandestine sake-tainted meetings, where teeth ground into flesh and gasps were echoed in the staring dark.

Tobirama is selfish.

He bears the corpse away, his teeth grit, and for now he hates his brother and he hates his lover all the more for dying. He refuses to acknowledge implications and he hates himself for it, and he remembers, again, Madara’s voice as it presses the words to his bared throat.

/I will get you where kunai cannot reach./

—

Hashirama dwindles. Tobirama hangs back, watches as Mito Uzumaki scrambles so early on into this political marriage; she is the inheritor of a broken ruin, a conveniece, a vessel. Tobirama almost pities her; for all of her hardness as a kunoichi surely she must have dreamt once of a proper family, a proper husband, proper children and a proper house.

But Hashirama keeps on dwindling, and Tobirama turns away.

Perhaps it is a form of vengeance.

—

Madara is as beautiful in life as in death, suspended in formulae, his hair a black cloud of ink that time cannot touch. Tobirama spends hours looking into his face, to the curve of his eyelashes, and to the infinitely tiny bubbles clinging to those fine curls, to the slack pale lips parted and to the teeth that offer glimpse.

Tobirama is capable of an irrational amount of selfishness.

The Uchiha have no need of this corpse. The village will not honor its co-founder, not after the very same man had tried to destroy it. There is no place for Madara Uchiha except to rot in the earth, a dishonor from his clan, not given with a burial by fire.

Tobirama hid his lover away from the world.  
It still astounds him sometimes, the names he call Madara in his mind, in the darkest corners of memory where their history was hidden.

Now, dead, Madara was truly his.  
Tobirama took a morbid delight in it.  
Not many knew the Senju were just as capable of obsession like the Uchiha.  
Tobirama’s obsession powers him through the widening rift between himself and his shell of a brother.

—

Hashirama’s resignation is met with collective relief and a desire to look forward, past cracked earth and bleached bones poking garishly toward the sun. Tobirama thinks the Hokage robes are stuffy, and he refuses to wear them the moment his inauguration ends. He promises recovery to the people of Konoha.

/We will put the nightmare behind us and strive forward./

Hypocrite, his mind whispers as he continues with his speech. Hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite.

He keeps the corpse. He will keep that corpse.  
His love will never be parted from him again.

—

Madara’s lips are cold. There are no venomous words to be had; no urgent moan of Tobirama’s name; no fiery insult and no spit hurled toward his face. Madara is cold to the touch and his hair is limp, and yet Tobirama buries his nose into those dark strands and inhales the smell of death and rot and decay, and this floods his lungs with putrid flowers.

Madara is his in this finality, at least.  
In the silence of his laboratory and under the yellowing lights, Tobirama can be honest with himself.

His lips close over Madara’s mouth. His tongue traces the curvature of teeth, and he tastes chemicals. He trails his lips over closed eyelids and those curling lashes; and his lover’s body remains cold.

Tobirama sinks into the icy coldness with no shame nor remorse. There is only the image of Madara, alive, burned in his mind’s eye. A faraway laughter echoes in his skull, reverberating to his core, egging him on, and there is no disgust, no recoiling, no horror.

There is only despair, and this makes Tobirama behave like an animal— he has lost his brother, yet he refuses to lose his lover. Not even death can take Madara away from him.

He repeats that vow to himself; repeats it endlessly, as he pounds into the unresponsive body of his lover. His nails break cold skin and draw thick, black blood.

He is a monster.

He buries himself to the hilt, Madara’s name spilling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm. His hips spasm; there is a metallic clatter as Madara’s head lolls violently back.

Tobirama feels it first; lost in the throes of his morbid pleasure— that spark of flame. It courses through his lover’s body, this warmth that spreads like disease. Madara’s eyes snap open as his body force starts, the shock of Izanagi making him clench deep inside.

Tobirama loses himself completely.

—

He has no face to show Hashirama. Since then he has refused to visit his brother’s grave, and Mito mistakes it for grief, like the rest of the village does. Tobirama takes on two squads under his wing as he sinks into the routine of Hokageship. The middle ground. He will be the middle ground.

He establishes the police force and unceremoniously thrusts its burden onto the Uchiha.

He inculcates the Will of Fire to the children he has taken as his students. But sometimes Tobirama himself does not even believe the words.

—

Madara smells like fire. It is the scent that Tobirama desires; it burns his skin, burns his lungs. Burns his throat and burns everything else inside his rib cage. It burns.

He worships Madara’s body with the marks of the Fuuin jutsu he has improvised. It is a game, between them. Tobirama seals Madara’s chakra everytime he departs his laboratory, and Madara breaks them apart when he comes back. A puzzle. An entertainment. Something to do for his Uchiha prisoner, hidden away in this laboratory.

He asks why Hashirama had to die.

Madara’s mouth twists cruelly, and his answer hurts Tobirama in more ways than he could imagine.

/He was a means to an end./

Anger boils Tobirama’s blood as his fist connects with Madara’s temple. They fall into it, graceless and undignified, a writhing mass of teeth and bruising flesh and insults hurled back and forth, blood seeping on the tiled floors.

A surge of violence makes him grab wildly for Madara’s hair and he bashes his lover’s head against the legs of one of the metal stretchers. There is a clang and clatter as instruments fall to the floor.

Madara’s teeth sinks into his chest and tears out a chunk of his flesh.

Tobirama screams.

—

He is obsessed.  
Madara’s weight crushes onto him, driving his cock deeper into that body he knows so well. They rock into a rhythm they know like they know how to breathe, and Tobirama arches into the firepits of hell, and he burns— a willing victim.

He tastes his blood against jagged teeth; tastes his flesh on a tongue darting into his mouth, suffocating the breath out of him in the same way grief and guilt suffocated Hashirama in his last agonizing moments of sorry existence.

His heart is blackened with rot and ridden with worms.

Madara rides him into completion, and his lover’s seed burns against his stomach. He releases his own heat into his lover’s body, their voices mingling in a chorus of feral growls.

He cannot breathe.

Madara licks the tears that spill from his eyes.

“You killed him too and you know it.”

Tobirama knows.

—

He informs Madara of the coming war. His lover looks like the devil seated on the edge of the vat that had once housed his prone corpse, his hair wild, his eyes bleeding in a red ghoulish glow dotted with the dance of the tomoe of the sharingan.

“And so you will die and atone for your sins,” Madara tells him, and Tobirama does not refute this. “You will give your life to me as you have handed me Hashirama’s, and that will be the end of you both.”

Tobirama believes then that he is a monster. Madara had created him.

Yet he steps forward and claims his lover’s lips; he sucks Madara’s breath into his lungs. He is a monster. He knows that too well by now.

“Go and die in what manner pleases you,” Madara whispers against his lips. Tobirama looks into the slow hell-pit swirl of the Sharingan. He is lost. He does not want to be found.

He steps back and his fingers linger in Madara’s hair. He does not seal his lover anymore.

—

Madara Uchiha finds Tobirama Senju’s corpse in the same way that many years ago, Tobirama found his body in the heart of the Valley of the End. There is no rain, but the heavens are riddled with the eyesore of stars and a blood-red moon.

He pulls out five swords and a spear from the corpse. He cards his gloves fingers through Tobirama’s silver hair.

Tobirama’s lips are cold and unresponsive. The taste of death lingers on his teeth and on his tongue. Madara Uchiha caresses a scarred cheek and buries his nose into his lover’s hair, and each inhale fills his lungs with putrid flowers.

Perhaps Tobirama had loved him, once.  
Perhaps he too had loved Tobirama, once.

But Tobirama too, was just another means to an end.  
Madara Uchiha tells himself that as he burns Tobirama with the eternal flames of Amaterasu.

The stench of death clings to his clothes and his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Primarily how I see and role-play the dynamics between the two on a more canon setting. The two characters have surprisingly lots of common ground.


End file.
